


Who’s next

by all-of-the-ships-are-sailing (Scrapeourshoesonthestars)



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Fear, Gen, I don’t really know how to tag this, Period-Typical Racism, Snafu just sitting around monologuing in his spare time, Sort Of, World War II, but it’s mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrapeourshoesonthestars/pseuds/all-of-the-ships-are-sailing
Summary: Snafu develops his own ritual for after battle.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Who’s next

Dawn is growing around them, consuming the battle that can't seem to accept it's finished for now. Because even marines gotta sleep. At some point, the bullets stop firin' and the earth stops shattering and blasting them off balance. 

This is where the guy's bunk down to lick their wounds, like a bunch o' stray dogs with fuck all better to do. And Snafu's one of 'em. He was lucky this time, ain't got no more than a few cuts on his hands and a thunder in his head that could storm this place up in a heartbeat.

The cigarette touches his lips and he closes his eyes for the first drag. When he exhales, he opens his eyes and looks around for who's gonna be next. Next to get hit. Next to die. It's his own little ritual. Because he's gotta have somethin' that marks the fact that he survived through yet another fuckin' mortar shower, all the while being targeted relentlessly by them fuckers over there. If this is a foxhole they're squatin' in, then over there must be the wolf hole or eagle hole or any other kinda fuckin' thing waitin' for the right moment to come an' lay into 'em, rip 'em into little bits an' feast. Cause that's all they are out here, prey waitin' to be caught. An' they will be caught. Survival is just a game to see who can last the longest and Snafu knows who his money's on, worked it out over an' over in his head. He knows who's got the stuffin' for a place like this. He's been right the past three times and he knows who his eyes on for next.

His eyes don't find that poor fella' though, because another marine falls into his sight first an' fuck! No! He averts his eyes quickly but is it too late? It can't be him, not yet! He's much further up the line than a whole bunch o' these idiots, including Snafu himself.

Snafu dares to look at him again. His auburn hair, plastered to his head, sweat attempting to chase the streaks of dirt and grit and blood from his face. He ain't sat down yet. He's all wide eyes and haunted stares, standin' an' lookin' at nothin'. Grippin' the gun in his hands tight enough that Snafu can see the white knuckles from where he's sittin' 

"Sit down, Sledgehamma. It ain't your turn yet."

He ain't got a clue why it surprises him, but Sledge responds to his words, snaps back into life and bunks himself down with the rest of 'em. Don't even question what the fuck he’s on about. Snafu’s used to people askin' him to either make sense or shut the fuck up but Sledge don't. He just goes and sits himself down like a good boy bein' told by his mama.

Does he know what Snafu meant? Has he secretly picked up on his ritual? Snafu certainly never told anybody about it. Ain't them guys gonna want a thing like that hangin' over their heads in between the battle, though Snafu has a secret idea that everyone’s thinkin' it really. They’re all just lookin' from one marine to the next, just wonderin' which one of 'em was up for it this time, like lamb waitin' to be slaughtered. An' where did he number in their order? The little Cajun twigglet with the mean stare and a tongue to match. How highly ranked is he in his fellow marines eyes, or do they all have him pinpointed as the next to go. Hell, he wouldn't be offended, or even surprised, he don't rank that much higher on his own fuckin' line.

Where does he rank on Sledge's? Does he have him down for next or is he a little better off than that? Is the war savin' him for somethin' special? He bristles and looks out towards the enemy, the smoke from his cigarette dancing around him and scattering off into the dusty, grit laden air.

Which one of you Nip bastards got the bullet with my name on, huh?


End file.
